Friends, Romans, Countrymen
by algie888
Summary: Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. - Macbeth A series of drabbles/one shots
1. As chimneysweepers, come to dust

People didn't know what it is like. What it is like to die. What it's like to know about life, about when you really appreciate it. It's all regret and begging and mercy and epiphanies. It's about loving who you are, realising that, hey, it's been a good run. I've run my course.

It's peaceful and accepting. You're taking Death by the hand, and shaking him. _"Hello there, old fellow. How are you? I love what you're wearing. Very chic."_ Like taking a nap. Like succumbing to sleep. Like pure bliss.

I accepted death. I saw that burly Career coming, with that axe in one hand and sword in the other, his black hair swaying behind him like a shadow. Like a thunderstorm raining on my parade. I didn't bother moving. I soon felt the kiss of the sword against my cheek. And, like that, it was done. I just fell asleep, dreaming of light and love and my family. As my eyes fluttered shut, I thought I saw a face in the clouds - my father. He was coming to take me away.

Bullshit.

I know death. I know what no one else does. I know about death. And I'm telling you the truth. The Behind-The-Scenes business. The down and dirty that no one wants to hear.

Snapping a neck? That hurt like hell. Poison? Your veins burn like a million suns, as though they had been replaced by lead. Nightlock? The bastards freeze your throat on the way down. Stabbed? Oh, don't even get me started on being stabbed.

It hurt. There was no stairway to heaven, no blinding light, no father smiling to take your hand. Mix up. Misconception. Fake. It hurt. There was pain. The sword hurt. It punctured a vein, and I could feel the blood rush down. Frantic. Trying to push the gushing liquid back in again. Blood slicked the grass, and I could taste it in my mouth - it tasted of rust, salt, desperation, fear. I stared at the Career, silently begging him for mercy. He sticks his sword in my stomach. Now I was dying, faster than before, but all I felt was the burn of the stomach acid slide down me, roasting me. Making me want to just _die_. That cloud was just a cloud.

Death hurts more than watching your loved ones being ripped away, or feeling your heart broken. It's selfish. But it's true. You know why?

Because it's you. If your family dies? Move on, remarry, their memory shall live on in your heart yadda yadda. O bla di, o bla da, life goes on and all that crap. They're watching you from Heaven, and you're happy, and they're happy, hurrah.

But when it's you? When it's you writhing there with a sword stuck through your abdomen? Sure, they live. But why is it worse when it's you? I'll tell you:

You've got nothing else to live for.


	2. But love that comes too late

I bit back a sigh as he toyed with my hair, his tanned fingers dancing through the tangles, parting them slowly to let the locks fall like a curtain down my back. I turned to face him, smiling. "Are you done, Horsae?" I murmured, cocking my head to the side.

He chuckled lightly, rubbing his knuckles down my cheek, and I couldn't help but lean into his touch. We had been together only a month, and the furnaces of passion were still burning strong. We were in a whirlwind romance, nothing ever parting us. "Sorry, love. But your hair is just... lovely!"

I smiled, and kissed him on the nose as I stood to get up. My coat was on the wall, and we had to go out into the square before the Reaping started in order to sign in. As I moved towards the door, I felt an arm around my waist, tugging me back down onto the chair he had been sitting on. "Horsae! I need to go!"

He smiled cheekily, and nuzzled his face into my neck, "I need you more than the Reaping does," he mumbled, his voice sending vibrations down my throat. I chuckled, and bat at the back of his head.

"Let go, you beast," I laughed, attempting to stand. "We need to go!"

"I'm not moving," he sang, and I could feel his pout against my neck. "Unless, of course..." he smiled, and I groaned. Horny bastard.

"Let's go, you lump. It's our last year - we may as well be there," I said, and his arms released me. I stood up, stuffing my other arm through the coat, and gasped as arms enveloped me, spinning me around and back onto the chair. "Horsae!"

My rant about time keeping was cut short when his lips crashed down onto mine, arms suddenly constricting. Even though I had been doing this with him for over three weeks, Horsae still sent my mind blissfully blank with his ministrations. I ran my fingers through his dark hair, cut so short that I failed to get an adequate grip on the stubbly strands. I gave up on his pitiable excuse for hair, and threaded my arms around his neck, as one of his hands tangled itself in my now horrible locks, but gently, as though caressing every strand. I sighed blissfully, but then gasped for breath when he tugged at my hair violently, yanking my face away from his before I slammed my lips back, toying with the hem of his jacket. I felt him smile against my lips, and tugged it off, revealing a turtleneck that covered far too much. Ah, well. As if he could undo my new dress that easily.

New dress. Reaping. Oh, god.

I thrust myself away from him, rolling from Horsae's lap and onto the floor, landing with a thump on the hard linoleum. I took a glance at the mirror on the wall, and sighed thankfully as I realised it was not that bad. I could pass for decent.

"Now, idiot. We need to go for the Reaping. Or, at least, I do," I muttered, adjusting the blue ribbons that secured her hair in plaits at the side of her head. "So get going, lump."

Horsae chuckled.

_Those were some of the last words I said to Horsae. He was Reaped that day, and I spent my time in the Justice Building crying on his new shirt as he comforted me, stroking my hair as he did that morning. He died on the tenth day, freezing to death without a chance. _

_His token in the Games was a silver ring._

_My last words to him were, "I do."_

_I didn't know I'd love him. I actually didn't love him. I only liked him, as girls did with a boy. I married him to console his final moments. Maybe I loved him from the beginning, but I only realised it at the last moment._

_I only realised I loved him when I saw that glint of his ring as he was lifted into the air. A twin to the one I wore. _

_Love comes far too late. _


End file.
